


Eros in Armour

by Watergaw



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jousting, Alternate Universe - Knights, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, nothing explicit here but my low-key service kink may be showing, sixteenth-century ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 12:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watergaw/pseuds/Watergaw
Summary: "Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to see the beauty in what we do on the field the way I do? You take what was made for violence and turn it into something beyond flesh and bone. It's like music, Yuuri."In which Victor is a prince with a talent for chivalry, and Yuuri is his champion.





	

The field was already alive with movement: lords and ladies had taken their seats in the pavilions, and the crowds hummed with apprehension, their attention focused on one dark point among the bright mass of tents where the day’s competitors were arming.

Black and silver, the tent glistened in the sunlight, silken folds shifting in the breeze like the motion of a beetle’s wing. At its entrance hung twin shields marked with a device in black, an armed figure with wings outstretched.

At the sound of trumpets, a hush spread through the crowds, stretching out into silence as they watched and waited to see the black knight.

For five years, Victor had reigned as the indisputable master of the discipline of arms. The prince who fought with such impossible grace that there was no one to touch him.

  
Until an unwary traveller had dared to breathe the tale of a knight who came close to mastering the princes’ skill at arms. Watching the prince as he moved through the forms of his exhibition drill in swordplay, the traveller cried out in surprise, and let it be known that he had seen this display, the fingerprint of Victor’s own perfections, performed by someone else.

The traveller had gone to ground immediately afterwards, afraid of the prince’s anger at this presumption, and at the man fool enough to bear news of it.

But Victor had found the man, and, far from punishing him, the prince had pressed rich rewards on him to tell his story. At last, with the assurance that he meant the stranger knight no harm, he wrung the last pieces of information he needed from the traveller and, the next day, Victor disappeared.

The high king, at least, knew where Victor was headed, assuring the nobility that the heir to the throne did not lack protection. But it was almost a year before Victor reemerged, and in his wake came news that the prince himself would not enter the lists this season. Instead, he would sponsor a champion: a minor prince from the far-off kingdom of Hasetsu, remembered for disappointing the weight of expectation that had followed him to last year’s _pas d’armes_.

Rumour was vicious: no one welcomed the loss of their shining prince for the poor exchange of an unproven knight, undeserving of his new place at the prince’s side. Yet Victor was loved, and the tide of incredulity masked a rising current of anticipation. Trained in secret, the new champion invited the most delicious speculation, from the salacious to the sublime. What could the young knight possibly have to offer, to draw the attention of his prince?

  
And today would bring an answer, as the prince’s champion took the field for the first day’s joust _à plaisance_.

At first sight of him, the crowd drew in their breath. He wore black armour accented with silver, fitted as closely as if it had been moulded to his compact, muscular form. As he walked, the suit flexed, a myriad of narrow plates glinting as they moved and caught the sun.

In the pavilions, Minako stifled a gasp. "That’s the prince's armour!"

"Are you sure? Would the prince’s armour even fit him?"

"It's been altered, yes, but that's a master armourer’s work. And I remember Prince Victor wearing it, ten years or so back. I’d know it anywhere. That's quite the statement they're making." Minako shook her head: "I can't believe they kept that under wraps. Those boys!"

"Will Yuuri challenge first?"

"Watch."

There were fourteen competitors in this year's field, each with a tent in his own chosen colours. Called together by the herald, the knights drew lots for their place in the day's order. The privilege of first challenge fell to Sir Emil Nikola. Armoured in blue, he struck the right hand shield at the mouth of Sir Michele Crispino’s tent with his shield arm.

Minako nodded again, and smiled appreciatively. "A _joust à plaisance_ , with the arms of peace. A good start, there."

"How’s that?"

"Well, you can never be sure with jousting, see, but they call them arms of peace because the tips are blunted." Gesturing towards the field, she said, "they’ll tilt until one of them gets a winning score, or is unseated. They might still be injured, but it's less likely. Leaves a bad taste in the mouth, when there’s bloodshed in the first match."

The two knights embraced before moving to opposite ends of the lists, where they mounted their horses and took up their lances, preparing to ride. In the centre of the lists, a tall barrier covered in blue cloth stood, protecting the horses against collision.

Their riders sat poised for the controlled violence of the joust, awaiting the herald’s signal to begin. And, at the end of a breathless moment, the trumpet sounded.

You couldn't help but wince at the sheer noise of the impact. A rebated lance was not as damaging, but the force of it was no less terrible. Yet, this time, both men kept their seats, and they returned to the end of the lists to begin again.

Each competitor would ride against the others three times before the jousting was done.

  
For the watchers, even those who knew these competitions intimately, the speed and grace of the riders in their heavy armour never lost its ability to shock. Not power alone, but precision, the length of the lance perfectly balanced to bring its weight to bear in the point. The knights and their horses moved together as if each pair were one body: deadly force concealed within movements so dexterous that, in the moments before a strike, they looked almost like dancing.

And, today, no one moved more beautifully than Yuuri. His black armour drew the light to him, as if a piece of the night had slipped into the noonday; when he charged, the air seemed to sing, like the flight of an arrow.

In the pavilions, Minako let out a low whistle, as the trumpet sounded to mark the halfday break.

"Doing well today, our boy."

"Can he keep this up?"

Minako shrugged. "He's got the stamina, but this? This is all force of will. It’s his focus he needs to watch. And you know how he gets when it looks like the odds are in his favour."

Mari nodded. ‘"Mmmmhmm." She shifted uneasily, then turned back to Minako.

"Do you know what I didn't expect?" She paused and gestured at the grounds where Sir Christophe Giacometti sat astride a horse decorated with glittering nets where gemstones gleamed like fishes. "I knew they put on a show, but I didn't think it would be so…theatrical. What are the costumes about? They link with the shields, don't they?"

"Yes," Minako nodded, and tilted her head to one side, as if she were listening. "They’re a kind of game. Some of them are easier to work out than others. Sir Phichit’s red and gold and Sir Otabek’s colours are both national traditions, but see Sir Michele’s white and blue over there?"

A nod.

"Here blue stands for fidelity, with a white ermine for purity, and the motto _Rather dead than spotted._ It’s a public commitment to virginity, for him and his sister, Sara. That’s her favour tied to his lance there."

"That’s…well."

"I know. But they are quite intense."

Mari cut her off with an incredulous, helpless gesture at their surroundings.

"No, they are, a little." Minako laughed. "Even given the context. And the stiff competition. Funny thing is that Sara’s quite the accomplished armswoman herself, so all this protection is a little unnecessary. She and Mila rode as Amazons at the end of last year’s _pas d’armes_." She flashed a wide, wicked smile. "It was spectacular. I'm hoping they do it again."

"Okay, so that's Michele. What about Georgi?"

"Oh, him. _Mes pleurs mon feu decelent;_ my tears reveal my fire. See the dark haired woman over there? She ended things with him recently, but he’s still smitten."

"And Yurio? Is that a cat on his shield?"

"Ahha. With the motto _Touch not the cat but a glove_. No hands when the claws are out. Wise advice, there."

"And our boy?" Mari said as, on the field, Prince Victor strode out from the sidelines to clasp his champion’s lance hand. With quick movements, he stripped the gauntlet from Yuuri’s fingers and interlaced them with his own. Still winded, Yuuri was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead, his black hair slick and flattened where the weight of the helmet had rested. His face was flushed with effort and something more tender, as the prince stared into his brown eyes before lowering his head to press a kiss into the warm flesh of Yuuri’s palm.

Minako fixed Mari with a look. "Cupid, armed, with the motto _Amor vincit_."

"Love wins."

Minako nodded, mischief dancing in her eyes again. "What did I say? Quite the statement."

Until the end of the day, Yuuri rode as if lance, mount, and armour were one, under his skin like blood and bone; rode with with an urgency that made the watchers’ shift feverishly, their muscles tense. And, as the light ebbed away, Yuuri blushed as red as the roses in the crown set on his head to mark him as winner of the honours on that first day.

The silken opening of the black tent closed behind them, Victor dismissed Yuuri’s squire, lifting his hand in a gesture that stilled Yuuri’s instinctive movement to call him back. Yuuri stood, still fully armed but for his bare head and hands, the strain of bearing the armour’s not inconsiderable weight written in the set of his shoulders and a tightness in the muscles of his face. The thought of stretching tormented him like an itch, but he waited in silence, without so much as a look to press Victor for an explanation.

Victor knelt at Yuuri’s feet, and the impossibility of the gesture made Yuuri’s heart stutter. The shock of it froze him, but the length of a heartbeat was enough to begin to feel the trickle of returning sensation, numbness yielding to an increasingly painful heat.

With careful hands, Victor unfastened the spurs at Yuuri’s ankles, silver hair falling forward to obscure his eyes. Slowly, he drew the sabatons from Yuuri’s feet, unwinding the wrappings beneath to expose the bruised flesh there, his fingers brushing lightly against Yuuri’s skin. Yuuri shivered, aware of the sweat dampening the layers of fabric beneath his armour against his body. Aware, too, both of how unworthy of a prince this action of Victor’s was, and, with a prickling, guilty awareness, of the heady rush of pleasure it brought him. The breath caught in his throat, and Victor’s smile grew wider. Holding Yuuri’s gaze, he began to undo the silver knots fastening greaves and poleynes, lifting them from Yuuri’s legs and running one hand, firm and slow, down the inner curve of Yuuri’s calf.

Yuuri blinked, almost dazed at Victor’s touch. He felt the blood rising in his face, its warmth spreading along his cheekbones, and a sensation like falling lurched in his stomach.  
Victor reached higher, deft fingers undoing the leather thongs holding the cuisses taut against the thick muscles of Yuuri’s thighs. Yuuri closed his eyes, mouth suddenly dry.

This couldn't be happening.

Each piece of armour Victor took from Yuuri’s body undid him a little more. Each piece of armour brought home to him, with terrifying clarity, how much he liked being the subject of Victor’s intimate attention. Even more intoxicating than Victor’s eyes on him in the lists, the knowledge that he could bring his prince to his knees.

He had wanted to serve Victor, proving himself on the field. This was something beyond imagination, laying bare a want whose shape he’d never so much as suspected.

The intensity of it left him gasping.

Unlacing the final points to free the breastplate, Victor set it down and drew off the padded gambeson beneath it, leaving Yuuri standing, uncertainly, in his linen undershirt and bries.

He swallowed, unable to meet Victor’s eyes.

Taking Yuuri’s hand in his, Victor guided him towards the bath standing to one side, his patient movements betraying no sign of any disturbance to his perfect composure, no acknowledgement that anything unusual was happening. Yuuri smothered a sudden, absurd urge to laugh: he’d spent all day in arms, but Victor’s self-possession was going to put him beyond endurance.

Still impassive and all poise, Victor stripped Yuuri to the skin and helped him to lift trembling legs into the water. Time stretched as Yuuri tried to pull back the thread of his fleeting thoughts, to make sense of what was happening. And Victor, Victor washed him with such inexorable care that Yuuri couldn't find the words to protest.

Afterwards, though. Afterwards, Victor trailed warm kisses along Yuuri’s clean skin, catching tender flesh with firm lips and gentle teeth. Afterwards, he led Yuuri towards the bed, and the world folded down until there was nothing but Yuuri and Victor in the space between night and morning.

  
The second day, Yuuri fought with new determination, silver and black metal moving like the swell of music in a minor key. Eros trading places with his shadow-twin Thanatos, the god of death. Yet, as the day wore on, the watchers took in the difference in Yuuri’s performance. Still beautiful, it pulled their eyes like iron to a magnet, but today the display of arms had a hungry edge to it. Instead of dancing, his movements carried a note of aggression, art stripped away to bare their hostile purpose.

In the pavilions, Minako winced, knuckles blanching as her fingernails bit into her palms. Mari worried at her lower lip, unable to keep still.

During the final tilt, the urgency of Yuuri’s desire to claw back his form gave way to desperation. He overreached, hitting his mark at the expense of his seat. Both he and his opponent fell to the ground in a cacophony of metal and air wrenched from the watcher’s lungs.

For a moment, he didn't try to move. The arch of his body and the press of his gauntlet into the soil screamed his frustration in silence. On the other side of the barrier, Isabella ran to help a stunned Jean-Jaques. Lifting his visor to look into his eyes, she pressed a hand to her heart in relief, helping him to his feet to cheers from the crowd.

They cheered for Yuuri too, in noisy relief that neither man had been seriously harmed. But when Yuuri took off his helmet, his face was shuttered and snarled with pain.

In the silken tent, without armour, he twisted the bright golden ring on his right ringfinger ceaselessly, as if picking at a wound. He couldn't meet Victor’s eyes, his own gaze blank, spiralling inwards. He didn't see Victor’s untroubled face, or his look of warm affection.

"Tomorrow, when it's over, let’s end this."

Victor flinched as hard as if Yuuri had hit him. Unable to hold back his tears or his anger, he was powerless: Yuuri was out of reach, lost to his own sense of how far he fell short of perfection. Yet what could he do but try?

"You were beautiful. You are beautiful. The fall means nothing."

Yuuri’s hair was a mess of tangles and spikes against the tense lines of his face. Victor caught back the urge to smooth it down, too raw to offer comfort; too uncertain it would be welcomed.

"It doesn't matter. You're the heir. It's not as if you could train me forever. You have to come back to the field. It's your duty."

"I thought you would stay by my side." Victor’s mouth twisted, his fingers brushing the ring on his own hand, the mate to Yuuri’s, as if checking it were still in place.

Yuuri bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. "I was selfish enough to keep you for a season. But I don't belong here."

""Yuuri, they crowned you with roses yesterday. And you were perfect, but that's not why." Voice rising with emotion, Victor broke off to pull back his control. "I thought you knew. It's not about art; it's political. It's about you being accepted. And you made that happen."

He let out a shuddering breath, and closed his eyes. "Iwin because I'm their prince. I’ve worked to be the best, to make it true, but I’d win even if it weren't."

"Is that supposed to make it better? That yesterday was a lie?"

"No! Yuuri, no. Do you know how long I’ve waited for someone to see the beauty in what we do on the field the way I do? You take what was made for violence and turn it into something beyond flesh and bone. It's like music, Yuuri."

"Not today."

"Today you forgot that this isn't a battlefield. Yuuri. Yuuri, this isn't the war."

But Yuuri shook his head.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll make my own decision. After the foot combat."

In the end, it came down to Yurio. Yurio, whose response to the news that Yuuri might be leaving was characteristic. Already the embodiment of grace on the field, off it, Victor’s young cousin had the kind of demeanour that generally made people nervous at the thought of him in proximity to edged weapons. Positively radiating annoyance, he stalked to the mouth of Yuuri’s tent the following day, and struck the right hand shield with his sword arm.  
The watchers’ sigh of relief was audible. Still _à plaisance_ , then. Given Yurio’s mood, a challenge _à outrance,_ until one of them was too badly hurt to continue, had been a real possibility. As it was, Yurio had challenged his namesake to a combat with the arms of war: their weapons would be unbated.

Yuuri and Yurio fought with longswords, opening in fool’s guard, the points of their blades held low, in deceptive invitation. Then the motion of blades and armour was almost too swift to track, as strike met with counterstrike, the two men shifting between stances with quicksilver fluidity. Not only their blades, but their bodies were weapons. Hands deflected blows; they halved the length of the sword to thrust, and Yuuri and Yurio made combat look as smooth as the steps of a measure, binding and winding.

The discipline of the sword demands control; control of the blade and of your opponent’s actions. Even with the protection of armour, the unblunted weapon demands more, its keen edge a further tax on the limits of control. Yuuri and Yurio were evenly matched, but Yurio had already won. At long last, winding his blade over the top of Yuuri’s guard to press against the vulnerable juncture at his throat, sealing his victory. Stepping closer into Yuuri’s space, he hissed, low and menacing.

"Leave now, and I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life. You see this, this thing that brought us here? It's too big to bear alone. I’ll be damned if you don't pull your weight."

And under his helmet, Yuuri broke into a smile.

Yurio took home the honours on the final day, his face a determined scowl under his crown of roses. On the field, twin blades flashed in the sunlight as Yuuri and Victor moved in perfect synchronicity through the stances of a familiar drill. Today they were without armour, in dark pink and royal blue, with gold that drew the eye to a matching pair of rings. Their swords were sharp, so it was with a collective gasp that the crowd took in the difference of the drill’s conclusion. In a mirrored feint, each man moved forward in an attack that left a calculated opening as the blade slid through the other’s guard. Each pressed a swordspoint to the other’s breast, in a blow that would never be driven home.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is as historically accurate as I could make it, but doubtless more inaccurate than I know. I was aiming for sixteenth-century, but let's call it secondary world, as there's no good way to account for the range of international competitors. As far as I know, exhibition drills weren't a regular feature of jousting. I wanted this because reasons, so here we are.


End file.
